Bishop did wake up, and it was in a puddle of blood.

Hope was screaming. The sun was going down and it had softly begun to rain. Annalise had a knife plunged through her heart, and her hand was at the base of it.

"She killed herself." Hope curled as he slipped off the edge of the bed and backed against the wall, dripping with her blood. He hadn't responded with such blatant terror to the other deaths, but then again, he had not woken up in the mess of those.

And when it occurred to Bishop that he was also bathing in Annalise's blood, he splashed off the bed and scrambled to join Hope against the wall.

"She killed herself," Hope said again, and this time was sobbing. "We're the only ones left. Fuck. Bishop. We're the only ones left."

They were the only ones left.

This dawned on Bishop as Hope grabbed his wrist and clung to it. They were the only ones left. Had she done this with that in mind? Had she done this just to leave them by themselves?

When the Overseers arrived – it took a long time for the boys to work up the courage to actually call for them – there was a broken contender to each one. Bishop crumpled in the arms of the man in brown and Hope against the Second. They had won the competition and it was not even over yet.

That was the worst part. Though everything had unravelled and the two that remained were the only two that ever now would, the Trial could not cease until the thirteenth of December, as was scheduled.

Letting go of Annalise was almost harder than losing everybody else combined. Not because she meant more than the others – though she did mean more than plenty of them – it was what she represented that Bishop and Hope would miss most. She represented the competition; she had kept it alive. It was no longer a game anymore when only the winners were partaking. She was the one who they'd been able to blame and the one they'd been able to adore. She'd been the last true survivor. Bishop and Hope weren't survivors. They were just the ones that nobody wanted to take out. Nobody needed to.

"Bring your things over," Bishop said during one of the days following Annalise's death. Or just that day. Time was make-believe. "Stay with me."

Hope did. Though his room was right next door, he brought over his most important belongings so that he'd never have to leave Bishop's room again. He didn't take Chase's room but shared Bishop's. They went to class together, ate together, slept together in the same bed. Unlike lovers, but more in the way of a child who feared the dark sleeping with a favourite toy, clinging to it like it was the only thing guaranteeing his safety.

Sometimes Hope fell asleep on the couch with a book or his computer open in his lap. Bishop always joined him, unwilling to be that child that faced the night without his comforting teddy. Bishop would sit on the floor and lean against the side of the couch, wrapping himself around Hope's dangling arm. He would fall asleep there, too. When he woke in the evenings after dozing off like this, he'd find that his head had been propped on a pillow, a blanket cast over his body. Or, if he woke a little earlier, it would be to Hope's fingers in his hair. They would listen to each other breathe quietly for a few minutes or hours and then get up to make a breakfast that they'd eat by starlight.

Now that the ladder was redundant and lessons had become equally unnecessary, the focus of them shifted mostly to the masquerade. The Overseers were obviously hoping it would liven the boys up a little, and to some extent it did. Bishop would certainly rather talk about regal outfits and the acknowledgment of famous magicians than the death of his best friends.

Tailors and stylists were brought in, and Bishop and Hope spent a remarkable amount of time standing on little pedestals, arms outstretched, bearing themselves like princes to measuring tapes and fabrics of splendid colours. Hope's outfit was to be a dark blue, accented with silver, and Bishop's red, accented with black and gold. He hadn't ever pictured himself giggling breathily as he watched across the room as Hope moved his arm too suddenly and was pricked with pins, and yet there he stood.

They spent most of their weekends in cafes, reading the same book. They established a habit of annotating their books and then randomly swapping copies; annotating the other's; swapping back some hours later. It made for an interesting medley of thoughts in the margins.

Once, Hope bashfully disclosed a certain secret of his: that he always whispered his secrets and wishes into the pages of books when he had nowhere else to put them. Bishop laughed at first, but would later lay awake thinking about how many of Hope's books he had held. How many of his secrets and clandestine dreams had been in Bishop's hands without Bishop's knowing?

On days where either Bishop or Hope couldn't sleep, the other, no matter how exhausted, also sacrificed their rest, and together they went outside. They'd attend lectures or wander to the campus lake, where they could watch ducks mindlessly paddle in circles, and frogs croak from their beds of lily pads.

Bishop found that he was reverting to old habits, like not speaking at all unless prompted forcefully to, and it caused him to notice that Hope unintentionally echoed things Bishop did. When he didn't speak, Hope didn't speak. When he drummed his fingers on surfaces while lost in thought, Hope joined in. When he was standing on the balcony peering boredly over campus, Hope stepped up beside him and followed his gaze. It was as comforting as it was amusing.

As the weeks closed in towards the final day of the Trial, sleepless days became more and more frequent and lessons more tense. The rest of the Holloway students were growing more and more excited for the masquerade. Though not all of them would be invited to the main event, there would be celebrations for days to follow and the campus would gain vast attention. Bishop wished he had the same enthusiasm as all those ignorant strangers, and he could tell Hope felt the same way.

On the final night before the masquerade, Bishop and Hope did not even touch the bedroom, certain sleep would not come to them. They spent all night at the Museum with the Overseers, eating leftover food that caterers had provided and expensive teas, playing cards and charades. The run was dampened by the knowledge that soon, everything would be over. He felt as if he might have been more prepared for the world to end tomorrow, than for the Trial to. These thirteen months had almost reconstructed his entire life. He was not the same person who he had been when he'd entered this Museum for the first time and would never find that version of himself again.

What was going to happen, when this was all over? Would he and Hope find a way to exist outside of this little world together, or would they become strangers again?

Well, he supposed there was no reality where they were strangers. They would both be initiated, tomorrow night. They'd be Divine Members.

What was Bishop going to wish for?

As the sun rose, glinting through the stained windows of the Museum, the subdued festivities came slowly to a halt. The contenders stood half in and half out of the doorway, ready to return to their pantheon for the very last time. Ready for the most terrible and significant thirteen months of their lives to come to a close. The Overseers stood opposite to them, facing them with faces full of pride and fear and exhaustion.

"Sleep well today, boys," the First Overseer said, clasping his hands before him. "By the time you wake up tonight, the guests will be arriving."